


hair

by orphan_account



Category: Dangan Ronpa - All Media Types, New Dangan Ronpa V3: Everyone's New Semester of Killing
Genre: Alternate Universe - Non-Despair (Dangan Ronpa), Angst with a Happy Ending, Anxiety, Bathing/Washing, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Fluff, Forehead Kisses, Hair Washing, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Mythology References, Non-Sexual Intimacy, One Shot, Past Abuse, Past Child Abuse, Past Incest, Past Rape/Non-con, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Tooth-Rotting Fluff, Touch-Starved, Ultimate Talent Development Plan (Dangan Ronpa)
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-04-24
Updated: 2020-04-24
Packaged: 2021-03-02 02:40:51
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,169
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23827753
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: “When did you bathe last?”And then there’s shame. Kiyo brought his knees up to his chin, his gaze not leaving the floor. “I’m sorry.”“Don’t apologize. I’m not her.”
Relationships: Amami Rantaro/Shinguji Korekiyo, Shinguji Korekiyo & Shinguji Korekiyo's Sister
Comments: 4
Kudos: 278





	hair

**Author's Note:**

> im sorry this is so self indulgent its 3 am

All he can do is stare.

He stares down at the ground, at his legs splayed out in front of him, reminiscent of a limp little doll he had when he was a child.

Sister had given it to him. She bought it just for Korekiyo on a whim, caressing his round cheek as he marvelled at it for the first time. And how he had wept for her, just for her, when she held his body against her chest and stroked his hair. “It’s okay, Korekiyo. It’s okay.” For a year, he carried the doll around as if it was a child. He spent hours admiring its lovely black hair, the impeccable embroidery of its dress. His little fingers traced each section of the needle work, each delicate curve reminding him of her.  
Sister must love me so much.

Every gift from sister was a blessing. Every touch of sister’s was sacred.  
It was sister who taught him the things he knew, she who pushed him far beyond his limits, she who bathed him and clothed him and fed him and raised him and touched him-

“Kiyo?

He didn’t bother looking up. 

He didn’t have to.

Rantaro sat down next to him, as docile as ever. Rantaro, Rantaro who was with him, good, pure, wonderful Rantaro, whose touches were so similar yet so different.

Sister froze him to the core, she swept him up like Boreas himself and shaped him, moulded him how she liked, filed down his rough edges until he was small enough and smooth and perfect enough to fit in the palms of her ice cold hands. She taught him love, amongst other things, and he learned quickly. Love was accommodating, love was change, love was sacrifice, love was a secret no one else in the world could know. They were only imitating the gods. 

Rantaro was nothing but inescapable warmth. He was the sun rising in the morning and the moonlight on his skin at night. Once he was an ache in Kiyo’s chest, and now he was the beating of his heart. The rise and fall of his lungs. They both had rough edges left over, they were both clumsy and ungainly in their feelings, something he knew sister would have sneered at.

But they fit together. Rantaro’s edges matched Kiyo’s. There was no accommodating, there was no filing down, no more smallness, no moulding, only the two of them as they were. 

After a minute of silence, Kiyo felt Rantaro’s fingers threading through his hair. Just like the doll’s. Hair he once prided himself for, long and healthy and glowing, now hung lifeless and greasy against his cheek and over his shoulder.  
“When did you bathe last?”

And then there’s shame. Kiyo brought his knees up to his chin, his gaze not leaving the floor. “I’m sorry.”

“Don’t apologize. I’m not her.”

“I know you’re not her.”

“Okay. Then promise me you won’t apologize about anything.”

Kiyo gulped. He hadn’t noticed the tears threatening to fall once he started using his words. “Okay.”

“Thank you.” He feels a kiss against his temple, and momentarily wonders why anyone as special as Rantaro would want to touch someone as dirty as him. As disgusting as him.

“You need to bathe. I’m going to help you, is that fine?” A sickening thought passes through his head, images of sister, of him, of his bare body, of the things she did.

He swallows it down. This is Rantaro. He wouldn’t.

“Okay.” 

Rantaro treats him like he’s the most fragile thing in the world, and it’s both frustrating and comforting.  
He sits at the edge of their sink, fully clothed and fidgeting with the bandages covering his arms. The water is slowly filling up, and he fixates on the point where the water meets the pale green porcelain. He liked the tub, it reminded him of Rantaro’s hair.

Rantaro was like spring. He was like frost melting off a flower.

Kiyo watches him fill up the tub, occasionally checking the temperature or adding one sweet smelling soap or another. 

“Kiyo, I need you to take your clothes off. You’ll catch a cold if you get in with them on.”

He nodded, reaching to his collar. 

His fingers weren’t moving.

Why was this so hard? It’s such an easy thing, it shouldn’t be this hard.

All he did was look intently at the tiled wall opposite him, still bandaged hands frozen against the top button of his shirt. Sister would have hated him for it. Hated him for being so pathetic that he can’t do something as simple as bathe without help.  
Bathe without her help. Do anything without her help. 

Rantaro sits down in front of him and takes one quivering hand and begins unwrapping the bandages. Kiyo’s relief almost outweighed his guilt.

They sat together in silence as the tub behind them filled, Rantaro undoing the coverings with practised ease, careful to avoid irritating any healing scabs. He touches Kiyo as if he’s a delicate artifact, unwrapping each layer of linen with endearing concentration. He let him unbutton his shirt and slip it off his bony frame, Rantaro offering a kiss on the slope of his forehead as an apology for any discomfort.

Goosebumps litter his pale skin, and he’s starting to find it harder to breathe. His lover outstretches his arms in an unspoken question, and Kiyo allows himself to be held up by the waist and helped into the tub.

He felt better when he was in the water. 

Less dirty.

“Are you feeling okay?”

He allows himself a half hearted nod. “Better.” He hesitates, before extending a hand to Rantaro. “Come here? To me?” It’s more of a question than a request, and he gets an answer soon enough. He smiles when Rantaro climbs in fully clothed, but he can’t say he’s surprised.

Kiyo shuts his eyes, trying to focus on only the feeling of Rantaro’s fingers on his scalp and the smell of shampoo. He strokes away the hair sticking to the back of his neck, and Kiyo thinks like he could fall asleep like this.

“Do you want to talk about it?”

“No.” 

“There’s only so much you can keep inside, Kiyo.” His voice is soothing as he guides him backwards, so that they’re lying chest to back. 

Kiyo fidgets with his fingers under the water. “I don’t want to think about it. I just want to feel better again.”

Rantaro kisses a mangled crease of scar tissue on his back. “Okay. That’s okay too.” When he strokes Kiyo’s hair, it’s reassuring. It’s gentle, it’s a reminder that Kiyo doesn’t need to be afraid or upset or sorry for anything.  
It’s a reminder that no one will ever hurt him again, that the next time he’s held it won’t be because he’s gullible or naïve or anything else he can find to blame himself for what sister did.

Kiyo feels safe. For the first time in so long, Kiyo feels safe.


End file.
